She has been there, forever
vulnerable as a small child.
Open as the arid valley
to gathering storms.
Reflecting,
on the periphery of her mind.
Through each season she bears the cross,
tirelessly.
Old women cursed her.
A man, axe in hand
wanted to kill her.
Cold river fought for her soul.
Her first pursuit she found in fields of pain,
she has been there ever since.
Every house, to be her home
was falsely erected.
She still nurtured the gardens,
for all tomorrow’s, that never arrived.
The strangers came
walked across the lush lawn,
admired the garden.
With handfuls of green notes,
they bought her life.
The children left, seeking independence
with someone else.
Laughter and purity departed with them.
The man, she thought loved her, delivered
a final notice.
Requesting immediate freedom.
The lonely room encircled her cause for sorrow
cold bed soaked with tears.
Through the desert of her mind she viewed.
The passing train on the periphery of yesterday.
Carriages loaded with her life.
Just as on the day of her birth,
She became illegitimate again.
(C) Copyright , Dinka Bednjacic
Dinka Bednjacic 